Regrets
by Methian
Summary: Everyone has regrets about themselves, the things they have done. When forced to become a monster, will I feel sorry for what I have become? What I do on a daily basis? For my sake, I hope my chance at atonement isn't too late...


I own nothing related in any way to Left 4 Dead. All that belongs to me are the situations and the original characters.

Author's Notes at the end.

**EDIT: **I've gone through and corrected some mistakes and added a sentence or two here and there. Nothing major.

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**Regret**

It's quiet. Way too quiet. The streets should be full right now and there's not a damn thing in sight. No infected, no cars on the street, nothing. Just darkness as far as I can see. Even the buildings on either side of us are off. They look distorted, like they aren't quite there. The whole scenario is unsettling. I tighten my grip on my shotgun and lead my group further into the darkness. As the surrogate leader, I lead the line with the only female behind me and the other two males behind her. We march in a loose box shape towards what promises to be certain death.

After a short walk forward, we stop for a moment to mend our broken spirits. I lean against a wall that I didn't know I was standing next to and fish around in my coat pocket. I pull out a thin cigarette and light it. The smoke rolls out of my mouth with the same familiar taste of burning tobacco. The rush of nicotine in my blood doesn't comfort me as much as it used to. Now, it's mostly an old habit, a memento of times long lost. There are a lot of these now. Old habits that serve no purpose other than trying to cling to anything resembling normalcy. I let out a sigh and close my eyes, enjoying the strangely warm side of the building. I'm too old for this shit.

"Boomer!" the token female yells.

My eyes snap open in an instant and begin scanning the street for any sign of the blob of a creature. The Boomer is severely underestimated. One Boomer can summon a horde of hundreds and take down any ill-prepared group. I've seen it happen hundreds of times. If it can be killed before it can puke, then no harm done. Unfortunately, I can't find this damn thing. I search the dark streets and the warped buildings but there is no sign of the Boomer.

Before I can ask where she saw it, a glob of vomit hits me square in the face, coming from out of nowhere. The force of the impact sets me off balance as the bile covers every inch of my face. The liquid seeps in to my eyes, temporarily blinding me and forcing me to back into a corner to wait for the horde. Screams echo from everywhere around me and the sound of drums rise to a near-deafening level. I try to raise my gun but it isn't in my hands anymore. I'm defenseless. I close my eyes tightly, in anticipation for the rush.

But it never comes. With my eyes firmly closed, I can hear the footsteps on the pavement, the snarls of the Infected, and the screams of my companions. But they never come for me. It's as if they don't know I exist. And as fast as the cacophony began... It just stopped. Nothing. No snarls, screams, or shuffling. The only noise is the beeping of a discarded pipe-bomb. Confused as to why they did not come for me, I slowly open my eyes. The first thing I see is the dead body of the female, her long blond hair a bloody mess across her face. The second is the infected.

Standing before me, in a massive crowd, is every single infected that has ever attacked us. Close to one thousand are standing there, stock still, staring at me with such intense loathing that I feel like my heart will stop through the sheer force of their will. I try to move, try to say something but I can't and I don't understand why. All I can do is stare at the faces of death that are destined to end my attempts at survival, yet all that they do in return is stare back, punctuated by the still beeping explosive. Before I can go crazy from their evil gaze, the crowd opens in the center. Standing in the void are three extremely familiar-looking Special Infected. The trio, composed of a Hunter, a Witch, and a Tank, strides forward, their eyes full of murderous intent.

I can't quite place it, but they look extremely familiar, and not just because they are Special Infected. Their clothing reminds me of people I know. The closer they get, the clearer their features become. When they get within inches of me, I realize who they are. Subjects 41, 42, and 43. Subject 44 is strangely absent. I fall to the ground in fear, knowing exactly why this is happening and what exactly is going to happen to me. The Tank extends his arm and grabs me by the throat. I gasp for air as the behemoth lifts me easily into the air. The Hunter and Witch appear at my sides, the two creating a barricade in the event that I escape.

"You ruined our lives," the Witch says, degenerating into sobs. She uses her red jacket as a rag to wipe her eyes.

"You play games with our minds, using us for your twisted experiments," the Hunter screeches, "We had lives before this! Family, friends, futures!"

Several scenes flash before my eyes after his words. A college biology classroom, a cheap bar, an office building, and a veteran's memorial all enter my mind.

"And now it's time for pay-back!" the Tank yells, his leather jacket nearly ripping in two as he flexes his huge muscles.

"I'm sorry!" I whimper pathetically.

The crowd of infected laugh and cheer, sounding far away and ethereal, as the Tank begins to squeeze on my throat. All sensation is lost to me as I gasp for air and claw at the massive arm. It's no good and I know that I am going to die. The cheering becomes warped, devolving into a demonic racket of laughter and yells. Above all of this, however, is that lone pipe-bomb. All seems lost as my vision darkens...

"You reap what you sow!" the Tank yells, "No mercy for the wicked!"

I scream as I rocket upright on my bed. I am left panting, dripping with sweat and coughing for air. I reach up to feel my neck, making sure that I really am okay. Feeling nothing wrong, my heart begins to slow, allowing me a chance to take in my surroundings. I'm in my quarters on the compound. It was a dream. Just a horrible dream. But I can still hear the infernal beeping. Searching for a second, I find my alarm clock. 6:07, a full half hour and change later than what I set last night. Shutting it off, I breathe a sigh and check my neck once more, the beeping a thing of the past. I'm okay. Nothing wrong. Just another nightmare. She isn't dead.

I get out of bed and throw on my slacks, dress shirt, dress shoes, and lab coat, making sure to grab my pack of cigarettes. I head out of my room into the hallway, a feeling of bitter annoyance settling in the pit of my stomach. I head towards the laboratory. I missed breakfast and I have work to do. The scene is the same as every other day. A few subordinates are milling about but they do not pay any attention to me. Lesser scientists working on basic experiments. Lab mice and whatnot. All too utterly engrossed in their work to care as I pass by. Just as well. I can't stand any of them. I'm almost to my door when one of those pests stops me, staring at me with an idiotic grin.

An annoyed look crosses my face as I give him a once over. Short, round, and way too god damn cheery. I grumble out a sharp "What?" and his smile falters for only a moment before he picks it right back up.

"Good morning sir!" he says with entirely too much enthusiasm.

I grunt and move to walk past him when he steps in my path again. I'm starting to get pissed. I bark out another "What?" and his smile completely leaves him.

"Umm... Mr. Rayborn sent me to tell you that the new subjects have arrived."

His enthusiasm is gone and I'd feel bad for crushing it if I really cared. But I don't. Better that he learn to kill his happiness himself before the world can do it for him. I grumble something unintelligible and walk towards my lab door again. He watches me for a moment before running off to do God knows what. Standing in front of the lab door, the control panel comes to life and a robotic voice crackles out unneeded instructions.

"Welcome to Lab number Six-Three-Five. Please present your CEDA-approved identification card and enter your five digit passcode," it drones out like always.

Damn machine. I'm the only one that's been in this lab in two damn years. Think it would know me by now. I fish in my pocket for my ID and present it to the scanner. A little keypad extends from the machine, awaiting my passcode. I enter my number and it goes quiet.

"Passcode accepted. Welcome to the lab Doctor King."

The door slides open with a quiet hiss, revealing the interior of the unlit lab. I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and step into the lab.

"Lights on." I yell at the ceiling.

The overhead lights flicker on a moment later, illuminating the entire laboratory in a dim glow. In front of me is my desk and six screen computer. One screen for each of the four subjects, one for the infected, and another for general operations. The computer and desk are positioned on a platform with stairs on either side leading down. On the lower level, four identical glass tanks are stationed along the wall. Wires for simulations and physical monitoring run from each into a large panel on the far wall, giving a graphical representation of the mental and physical state of each occupant. Tubes run from the wall into each canister, providing a circulation of life support gel. Inside the gel are four people. Each person is more different than the last. Subject 41 is a twenty year-old college student, 42 is a twenty-six year-old African-American office worker, 43 is a thirty-five year-old biker, and 44 was a seventy-something year-old Vietnam Veteran. All completely different in nearly every way.

I sit in my uncomfortable computer chair and grumble from the pain in my back. I take a puff off my cigarette and set it in the tray by my keyboard. I rub my face and sit for a moment before starting my work. What have I done to these people? What have we, as a company, done? And for what purpose? Is it really worth winning the war to ruin people's lives? I shake my head roughly in an attempt to remove these thoughts.

"Computer on." I bark abruptly.

The towers begin whirring as the computer comes to life. Symbols flash across the screen momentarily, too fast to be intelligible, and the computer finishes booting. The canisters begin bubbling as electrical impulses are sent from their occupants into the mainframe. The subjects' faces contorted into pained visages for a moment before their bodies acclimate to the pain.

"Left4dead mainframe online. Simulations ready. Personalities downloaded. Good morning Mr. Director."

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**A/N:** Well? What do you think? The beginning sequence was an actual dream that I had. Then I was inspired to write something about the Director as an actual person. Thus, this was born. It's not great, but I feel it is good enough to post.

The only problem I had was were to end it. It was originally supposed to be much longer, delving into the inner workings of the complex and various other characters but for a one-shot, I though that would be too long. I may make this into a series but for now, it shall stay a one-shot. I think this is a good place to end. Otherwise, it would drag on forever and if people are bored by the time they get to this point, why would they keep reading.

Anyway, this is it. All comments and criticism is welcome.


End file.
